The Mistakes That Shaped Me

I.

For a long time, I thought mistakes were things you fixed or erased. Something you outgrew and never talked about again. You made them, you learned, you moved on—clean and linear, like a story you tell at dinner parties.

Now I realize most of the important ones don't disappear. They sit with you. They settle into your posture, your hesitations, the questions you ask before trusting someone. They quietly shape how you move through the world.

II.

One of my biggest mistakes was chasing shiny objects.

In high school, I made real money reselling sneakers. More than most kids my age had ever seen. And instead of letting it be what it was—hustle, resourcefulness, a kid figuring things out—I made it my identity. I flexed too hard. Posted too much. Talked about it like it meant something about who I was.

I thought the money made me interesting. I thought it would make people want to be around me. I thought I had to live up to some version of myself that looked successful from the outside—like validation was the price of admission to friendship.

It wasn't.

The people who showed up for the image weren't showing up for me. And the people who might've showed up for me couldn't find me underneath all the noise.

III.

That chase came at a cost. I didn't build real friendships.

I had people around me, but very few people with me. I knew a lot of names. I was in a lot of rooms. But the realest connections I had? They were online. Friends I played Minecraft with until 3am. Friends I queued League of Legends with night after night. People who never saw my face but knew my voice, my humor, my frustrations.

There's something strange about feeling more seen by someone across the country than by the people sitting next to you in class. But that was my reality. I was surrounded—and still alone.

I was so focused on how things looked from the outside that I didn't invest in the slow, unglamorous work of friendship. Showing up consistently. Being vulnerable. Listening without an agenda. I optimized for proximity to people who looked important instead of depth with people who actually cared.

IV.

Another mistake was staying in a bad relationship far longer than I should have.

It started the summer after freshman year of college, right before sophomore year began. And it consumed me in ways I didn't recognize until much later.

She took up all my time. Not in the way love is supposed to—where you want to give someone your hours—but in the way that leaves you depleted, smaller, less yourself. I started arguing with some of my best friends over her. People who had been with me for years. People who saw what I couldn't see.

I ignored my intuition because leaving felt like failure. I confused intensity with love. Familiarity with safety. I tolerated things I shouldn't have, thinking endurance was maturity.

It wasn't. It was fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of admitting I chose wrong. Fear of starting over.

And the worst part wasn't the pain—it was how normal the pain started to feel. How I stopped noticing the ways I was shrinking.

V.

I also spent time focusing on paths I knew I wouldn't like.

I chose things because they sounded impressive. Because they made sense on paper. Because they were "safe." Deep down, I already knew they weren't for me. But I convinced myself that discipline meant forcing interest. That passion was optional. That if I just pushed hard enough, I'd eventually want the life I was building.

It took me longer than I'd like to admit to learn that forcing yourself into the wrong life isn't strength. It's self-betrayal.

VI.

Looking back, none of these mistakes were random. They all came from the same root: insecurity.

Wanting approval. Wanting certainty. Wanting to be someone before I fully understood who I was.

I was performing a life instead of living one. Curating instead of connecting. And every choice I made from that place took me further from the things that actually matter.

VII.

I don't regret these mistakes—but I don't romanticize them either.

They cost real time. Real energy. Real people. Friendships I should've nurtured. Years I could've spent building something true instead of something impressive.

And they taught me something simple but expensive:

Clout fades. Shiny objects rust. Real friendships compound. Your intuition is quieter than fear, but it's almost always right. And choosing a life you don't want is the fastest way to lose yourself.

VIII.

If there's one thing I try to do differently now, it's this: I optimize for depth over attention. Truth over comfort. People over appearances.

I've learned that being genuinely kind—not performatively nice, but actually kind—is the way to go. That loyalty means something. That the circle is small and people know each other, so how you treat one person echoes further than you think.

I don't need everyone to like me anymore. That need was the trap. I still make mistakes—plenty of them. And some people won't like me. That's fine.

But at the end of the day, I really want to support the people around me. I want to make a positive impact on this world. Not for the image. Not for the story. But because it's the only thing that actually feels like living.

IX.

I've stopped trying to explain myself so much.

I let my actions speak. I let my friendships speak. I let the way I show up—consistently, quietly, without needing applause—say what I used to try to perform.

I still make mistakes. Just fewer of the loud, obvious ones. And more honest ones that come from trying, not posturing.

And that feels like progress.